“Elegance overcomes aggression”, he said without words, with nothing more than a brushing movement. Ink on silk, seeping, meaning soaking into fibers that were more receptive than most worldly things.
Stark and contrasting, dichotomy of appearance and insight played; Dorje Dradul of Mukpo in his Scottish kilts, manifest madness of Mahasiddha, and I, too lately arrived to know more of him than the echos of ink upon silk, than ink upon pulverized trees, than that which I carefully reconstruct in myself and kick over, time and again, for the infidelity; a sand castle upon the beach, grains that trickle at the slightest touch.
I find him in odd places, still; the farmer’s calm, cobalt gaze, or the open and infinite stare of a newborn. I catch lingering echoes of laughter and rage and cannot distinguish between them… count it progress.
Fractals and prisms, the light of all the minds of all the world, all beings, collide, shatter, and scatter like raindrops upon wind. All I can do is breathe; the wind horse and I exchange places, exchange names, exchange nothing and become everything.
The droplet hits the page… a meaningless period.